Somebody That I Used To Know
by Julie Verne
Summary: Kate returns to Toronto, long after the war is over.
1. But you didn't have to cut me off

It's nearly the 50's before you venture back to Toronto. You're touring with a company and you guess you're a little spoilt these days; but after such a bad beginning, who could blame you for your little luxuries.

It's in the supermarket that you meet Gladys. You didn't think you'd run into the old crowd while you were here for a few nights but you've just been proven wrong. She looks a little thin and harried, smaller and somehow shabbier but for all that no less gorgeous than you remember her.

"Kate!" She cries, and greets you with delight, like it's been a mere weekend since she last saw you rather than years, dragging you outside the store to speak to you properly.

Out of anyone you could have run into, you're glad it was Gladys. She's got her finger on every pulse around here and in less than ten minutes you're all caught up on everyone from the factory's lives since you last saw them. Everyone, that is, except Betty.

You're just about to ask about her when Betty comes out of the supermarket, small child carried on one hip and a sack of groceries in her free hand. She, too, looks a little sleepless, a little thinner than you remember.

"There you are!" She says, and hands the child over to Gladys.

"I just ran into an old friend," Gladys says, and then Betty looks at you.

You can almost see the memories flick behind her eyes before she reaches out a hand. You look at it dubiously before she slips it in yours to shake. It feels too formal but not formal enough and you don't really know what's happening. Why is there a child? Whose is it? Why are Betty and Gladys shopping together?

"Come over for tea," Gladys urges, her hand on your elbow. You can't even remember what you wanted from the store so you let yourself be guided onto a streetcar (by God, you've missed those). The child looks at you with a hand full of her own hair in her mouth. You can tell it's a girl now, lovely dark hair and deep deep eyes.

"Kitty, here's your Aunty Kate," Gladys says quickly, once she notices the slightly confused eye contact on both sides. Before you know quite what's happening a damp hand is on your arm and the slight weight of a child moves onto your lap.

You're more confused than before, looking between Gladys and Betty, trying to find an identifier in one of their faces that matches the child's. You can't tell who she belongs to. You can't ask, not on a streetcar.

* * *

"So what's bought you to town," Gladys asks as she puts the kettle on the stove. Betty starts putting groceries away and you can tell by the familiarity of both of them that they live here together and have done for a while. Betty slips past Gladys, moves her closer to the stove with a soft hand on a hip. They're familiar with each other too.

"My company insisted on a show here. It's the first time I've been back..." You trail off because Betty and Gladys know better than anyone the circumstances of your leaving Toronto.

You're still not quite sure where babies come from, but you're pretty sure that neither Betty nor Gladys is the father of this child, this child that's staring up with solemn eyes from your waist, arms looped around your neck.

"She's mine, in case you were wondering," Gladys chimes in from the kitchen. You sit yourself at the table, and the child leans her head against you, puts her hand back in her mouth. You haven't had much to do with children since your brothers were small (they grew up too fast; all three of you did, but also too slow in other ways) but this one seems to instinctively trust you and you're glad. If she screamed, you might not be in this nice suburban house with two very old friends. "But the house is Betty's," Gladys continues, unaware of your internal musings.

"And the father?" You eventually dare to ask, since no answer to this question seems to be forthcoming without the question. You can see a little of Gladys in her now, if you look closely.

"An airman. Or a soldier. Lost at sea." Gladys says quickly and cheerfully. You notice James' engagement ring still on her hand. She looks down at it when she notices. "Makes things easier," she says with a shrug. You think of Gene Corbett then, squint at the child's face again but give it up when she giggles and burrows into you.

Betty still hasn't said a word to you. She's leaning back against a kitchen counter, drinking in the sight of little Kitty on your lap. You turn back to Gladys because even after all these years you still don't know what you can say to Betty. You sent a few letters to Gladys, over the years, but none to Betty. You can tell yourself it's because you didn't know if she was still living in the boarding house when you left, but you try not to lie to yourself any more. Especially about Betty. She feels you watching her, meets your eyes and pulls out a few mugs and a bottle. Gladys turns at the movement and starts moving things around in the kitchen. Betty sits in a chair that's not next to yours and eyes you warily.

"Why are you really back?" She asks, eyes narrowed. You can see Gladys freeze behind her in the kitchen.

"Like I said, the company booked a tour," you say quietly. "I'm not here to cause trouble," you say, raising your hands off the child's back in a movement of surrender. She looks up at you, giggles again and just burrows in further. Gladys starts moving again in the kitchen. You know Betty well enough that you can tell she's relieved. You put your arms back around the child, jog her on your knee a little nervously. Betty's always been protective of who she loves, and right now you feel like the only thing saving you from being kicked out is that the child she's so protective over seems so fond of you.

Gladys puts a bottle in the little girls hands and she squeals with joy and starts drinking. She spills a little over the front of your dress.

"Kate!" Gladys chastises, and both of you look up at the sound of the name. Betty looks like she wishes she could be anywhere but here when Gladys snaps "It was Betty that named her," at your look of confusion. Betty ducks her head, walks into another room. Gladys reaches to take little Kate from you (it hasn't really sunk in yet, that Gladys' child is your namesake. You don't understand how this works, two women living together with a child. You don't know, yet, if Gladys has replaced you as far as Betty is concerned.) and points you in the direction of the washroom.

* * *

Betty meets you in the hall with a damp washcloth. She reaches out to pat you down but hesitates when she realises that it's most of your... chest.. that needs patting down. She hands it to you instead without meeting your eyes.

"It's rather sweet, really," you say as you dab. It's only milk, after all. "I don't mind." Betty looks up then.

"Why should you mind? If I'd named her after you, I'd have called her Marian." And that stings, just a little, but the way you left must sting her more.

"I'm sorry," you start, but she raises a hand, brushes away any apology you could make.

"I am too," she says.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," you try again, but she cuts you short again.

"I shouldn't have assumed..." she says, scuffing the carpet with her shoe.

"I led you on," you say, because you can see now that you did, that you needed her to love you back then more than you needed anything in your life before or after, you needed her so much that you made her believe something rather cruel. You let her believe you would live with her, then you disappeared in the night because you knew you couldn't. You don't know if she ever looked for you; you never got any mail back from Gladys, but you presumed Betty knew you were safe and happy. "I shouldn't have, but Christ, Betty, I was just a kid!"

"Language!" You hear Gladys chastise you from the kitchen. You don't know how she feels about this conversation; about any conversation between you and Betty. You don't know if she's worried you'll usurp her or if this really isn't what it looks like.

"But I was old enough to know better," you admit. "I couldn't stand the thought of owing you so much. For the house, for the jailtime, for... everything. I had to see who I was without you."

"You seem to have done alright for yourself," she says, with no hint of malice as she eyes you in a dimly-lit hallway. "I guess... I just..." She looks at you properly then, and shrugs.

"Me too," you tell her, and slip the washcloth back into her hand.

* * *

Gladys is pouring the tea when you return and the domesticity of this little house, this little scene, makes you ache.

'It could have been you,' a little voice chants in the back of your head. 'If you weren't so stupid, this could have been you.' You remind the little voice of the awards you've won, of the places you've been, of all the things you've done that you never would have gotten around to doing if you'd descended into Toronto life like Gladys and Betty. Your little victories don't measure up as well as Betty's hand on Gladys' forearm as she pours, or as well as Kitty's little hand slipping into yours.

* * *

Author's note: just a little plot bunny that won't go away. This hopefully won't interfere with Surfacing. More to come when I'm not uploading on an iphone outside a library in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.


	2. Have your friends

It's awkward at first, sipping tea with two women that you used to know rather well (your lives used to revolve around each other in the never-ending gravity of Victory Munitions) and now, you realise, barely know at all. Betty is quiet, laid back. Gladys is obviously no longer a high-society girl. You want to ask a hundred questions but the way you left means you have no right to ask any of them.

"So, your career is doing well," Gladys says finally. "Betty keeps all the clippings." Then Gladys makes a noise, a noise like maybe Betty's foot has connected with Gladys' ankle. "Well, you do," she huffs at Betty, then sips at her tea. Kitty nearly drops her bottle but with cat-like agility both Gladys and Betty reach out and steady it. They're distracted enough by it that you hope you can change the subject.

"I do well enough," you say quietly. They both look up then.

"Gladys' father cut her off," Betty says absently.

"Hey!" Gladys says, and there's a movement under the table like Betty's shins might have met Gladys' shoes.

"It's not like she couldn't tell, having you slumming it here with me," Betty says.

"For the last time, I am not slumming it," Gladys retorts and it's nice to be part of this, to be part of their everyday bickering. You didn't realise you missed it, but you're comforted by the fact that they're not just showing some veneer or facade, that they still feel close enough to you to act naturally. "I love Kitty, I love this house, and I love you, you stupid woman."

"Oh that's right, get at me for my -" Betty starts. You don't hear much after that. you froze up at the mention of love, that little voice having a parade in your frontal lobe. They don't even notice, they just keep talking. Gladys eventually turns to you.

"Betty went undercover. I wasn't letting her be just another butterbox baby. I'm not ashamed of what I did, and I'm not ashamed of her. Or Betty," she adds as an afterthought.

You nod as though you understand, but really you don't. You don't know what a butterbox baby is, and you don't know why Betty had to go undercover. You remember, briefly, the one time you went undercover and you reflexively wipe your mouth. Betty notices; her eyes follow your hand, linger on your mouth. You look away before she does.

"Not undercover, not really. I just got a job there. Trust me, you don't want to go to a maternity home for unwed mothers." She shudders a little at the memory.

"You got it shut down though, didn't you?" Gladys asks, and Betty looks away like she lost part of herself there. Gladys' hand slips onto Betty's forearm, their hands tangle together and you have to look away. It's too much, suddenly. You shouldn't have come here, even if you wanted reconciliation. You should have gone to the hotel bar, or a coffee shop. But you didn't know that they lived together; not until it was too late. Not until you were already in their house, casually touching each other in a way you've never been able to recreate with anyone else.

* * *

You've had some female fans, waiting at the door for you after the show. Holding out pictures of your face to sign, or little autograph books. It never really bothered you, or seemed odd, until one of them insisted she buy you a drink at the bar. Things were pretty hazy after that, and your memories of that night still make you blush. They do things differently in America.

You're blushing now, you realise, when Gladys peers at you curiously.

"Enough about us, tell us all about the high life of a singer."

"Not much to tell," you say with a half-shrug. "Different room every other night, lots of champagne. It's busy, but it's not..."

"Enough?" Gladys asks. You shake your head.

"Fulfilling," you say quietly, and sip your tea. It's gorgeous. It's the first cup of home-made tea you've had in a long time, steeped to perfection and pointing out everything you're missing out on. "It has its good points, though," you say quickly, in case either of them thought you were ungrateful. "The people are nice and I don't have to... worry. Like I used to." You look at Betty and she shrugs.

* * *

Author's note: FYI don't google butterbox babies. Just don't.

Title from Gotye's 'Somebody that I used to know'. Also the police of buttfuck nowhere get suspicious of cars parked at a closed library in the middle of the night, so, you know, that's fun.


	3. And then change your number

Betty shrugs, like it's no big deal that you lived half your life in the shadow of a brute, that she rescued you. From him as well as prison. She just shrugs. She just shrugs, and you just sip your tea. There's so much about her you don't know. She never spoke a word about the prison time, just shrugged off any questions you were brave enough to ask.

You decide not to tell them how you got where you are now from that night on the cold Toronto street; sleeping in unlocked cars and once, a tree (people don't look up). You don't tell them how it tooks months of shelters and endless piles of clothes that you mended at night for a few dollars, head close to the lamp, the smell of singed hair and bleach, the shared beds, the screaming children, the crummy meals. You don't tell them that you wanted, a thousand times, to go back to where you felt you had a home; a little room in a boarding house and a best friend across the hall.

You'd made your choice by then, and burnt your bridges. No matter how badly you wanted to return, those first few months, you knew you couldn't.

You'll let them believe that you walked into the life you live now from the moment you left. It was all a long time ago, anyway, and you tend to think the hard times made you a better person. You've seen the way some singers treat their entourage and you're confident that you'll never treat anyone as shabbily.

You'll never treat anyone as shabbily as you treated Betty, anyway.

"I should get back to the hotel. I have a show tonight and quite a few people will get anxious if they can't get hold of me. Thank you for the tea." You stand, rather desperately hoping that they will let you leave without questioning the tears you can feel wending through your foundation. You don't fit here, and the evidence of that, right in front of you, Betty's hand still entwined with Gladys', is a cruel reminder. You used to fit here, between the two of them and now it feels like you've outgrown your favourite dress.

You left your friends behind; you didn't expect them to leave you behind too.

"Betty..." Gladys starts. Betty turns to her as you stand. "I think Betty would like to come, one night." Betty shrugs again, and once again there is movement under the table. Someone's being kicked again; probably Gladys by the pained look on her face.

"I have some passes. If you write down your address, I'll have them sent here this afternoon," you say, making it very clear that at no point have you ever had this address. Trying to convey that that's probably why you haven't sent letters here.

"That will be lovely." Gladys retrieves a pencil and some paper, keeps them out of Kitty's grasp as she writes. She hands it to you and you fold it into your purse. Your hand remains on the paper as you step backwards, toward the front door.

"Betty will see you out, I'm going to get all the milk off this little animal," Gladys says, then picks up the child, who again squeals and apparently has no qualms about being carried sideways and headfirst through doorways.

* * *

You let go of the piece of paper and rest your hand on your purse once you're in the hallway at the front of the house. It's just private enough that you feel like Gladys or the neighbours can't overhead you. You fumble with your purse, pull out some money and press it in Betty's hand.

"There's no debt here," Betty says, eyes flashing angrily. She pushes the money back at you. She's always been proud.

"It's for Kitty. I'm fairly sure I've missed a birthday or two."

Betty hesitates at that, then curls her hand around the bankroll.

"She has had her eye on a doll," Betty says slowly. She'd turn you down, but it's clear she wants the best for the child she's raising. She wouldn't accept anything from you, but on behalf of Kitty, she'd sell her morals.

"I'll always be indebted to you," you tell her quietly, "but I'm not foolish enough to think I could pay you back with money."

* * *

Author's note: Generic note about using an anchor rope when sleeping in trees.


	4. I don't really need that though

It's awkward now, and you step backwards to the door. Betty steps forward and there's a moment of seizing in your brain as she reaches around you to get the handle. Her face is so close to yours but she's focused on the doorknob behind you and she doesn't even notice, doesn't pay it any mind. Once the door's open she looks up and smiles a bit. She seems taken aback by your expression and backs away, as do you, out the front door.

"I never meant to hurt you, that was never my intention," you start, trying to justify your past actions that were pretty unjustifiable. You just need to know that it didn't come from a bad place, that she doesn't think you hate her, like you thought she did after she got out of jail.

"I figured," she says, looking down again. "I read those letters you sent Glad."

There was a lot you wrote in those letters; you can't recall it all right now but you know you wrote something about needing to find out who you were without standing in the safe shadow of Betty.

There's footsteps pounding down the hall and a tiny person hurls herself at Betty, is caught and picked up, settled on a waist. Betty's hair, in the daylight, shines in a way it never used to. She's a different person, away from the cordite.

Betty reads your face, in that snapshot moment, and steps forward, quickly puts an arm around you and pulls away as fast as she can. In this case, it's the least she can do; it's the most contact she could offer.

"You made me a better person," she says, and half-smiles. She chucks you under the chin, then steps back.

Betty stands at the door, Kitty on her hip, both waving a hand each as you walk away and try not to think about Betty shutting the door once you're off the property, Betty handing Gladys her child, planting a kiss on Kitty's forehead, then one on Gladys' mouth, now that the door is shut. Now that the door is shut, you can pick you your pace, swipe at where your makeup has smeared; is still smearing.

There is love in that house, and you can't remember the last time you felt love. Maybe in your bed, with Betty comforting you. Or in the hospital, with Betty again. Maybe the last time she looked at you.

Ivan said he loved you, but he moved on remarkably fast. He also said he loved Betty, and again, moved on awful fast. It still hurts to think about Ivan. You're glad you made peace with him but what your replacement told you hurt; he shouldn't have been there, but then she shouldn't have been planting live bombs in a bomb factory. You can't see, really, how she thought that could work out in her favour.

You shouldn't have come here. It's bought up a myriad of feeling and memories, not least of which is the way Ivan screamed and screamed, the way Betty never strayed more than two feet from your hospital bed.

Ivan always wanted more than you could give. Betty was patient, and once she knew you didn't want her as a suitor, she kept her intentions honourable. Most of the time she was just Betty, then you'd catch her looking at you and you'd remember and blush and turn away.

Betty once said that the kind of singing you were interested was only done by a certain kind of people. You thought it was racist when she said it, but she was right. You've had countless negresses eye you off, only to tell you to stick to white music. "Why you gotta take that away from us too?" One asked. You had no answer. You just knew what felt right, and it felt right, friendless in lonely towns, to fill the rooms with your voice until you felt less alone.

You've made it to the streetcar stop now, and it takes a few minutes to reorient yourself with Toronto. You never strayed far from the boarding house, but you can tell it's nothing like Gladys' old neighbourhood. The houses are a little run down, the lawns are a little too long. You climb onto the streetcar from force of habit, eye fixed in the direction you think Betty's house is in. You wish now that you'd gone to see Betty box, just once. You've seen her fight before, usually for you, so you know she can handle her own. She fought for Teresa too, fought pretty hard, judging by the state of her face. The amount of times you held ice to her bruised left eye, you were scared she'd lose vision in it one day.

She fought for Teresa, but she was fighting for something else. You could see the way it hurt her to have to be secretive when she finally had something she was proud of.

And now she and Gladys live together in a little house with a child they're raising together. She seems more comfortable now, like she's settled in. She and Gladys both seem... settled and grown up now, in a way they hadn't been before. You can't see these solemn adults dancing at Sandy Shores. You've lost something you hadn't known you'd valued, two people that used to mean the world to you.

Their world is so vastly different to yours now.

You can see the grocery store, and hop off the streetcar, buy some tea. You'll make it yourself this time. Maybe it'll taste like the past didn't go anywhere.


	5. You're just somebody that I used to know

Chapter 5: Now you're just somebody that I used to know

* * *

You get hold of one of those people that get things done when you get back to the hotel; send her off with three backstage passes. Enough for the whole family (yes, you think of them as a family now; it's better to be prepared), or enough for Betty to come three times.

You don't really expect Betty to show up that night, and you're only booked for a week before heading back to The States. But you're nervous when it's time to go onstage - you haven't been this nervous since your first night on stage, Betty smiling at you from the bar at Tangiers. Thankfully you can't see anything once you're onstage, and the crowd is an indistinguishable hum; some sort of feedback loop a technician explained to you one time on yet another endless train journey. You tell yourself over and over that Betty isn't there and that's how you make it though the first set.

You flinch at the knock on your door during the break; you're hoping it's a martini but you're pretty sure it's another curtain call. Instead it's Betty; she has a small bouquet of poppies and a nervous smile. You beckon her in and you're certain your smile is just as nervous as hers. You haven't been alone with her for years and all you can think about is that she hasn't closed the door behind her. You stand, push the door shut behind her and take the flowers. They're lovely, but they remind you of so much lost. Of Vera and Marco and Ivan. You put them in your water-jug for the moment; there are already a lot of vases in the room, all of them already in use.

"Gladys doesn't mind?" you ask tentatively, nodding at the flowers.

"Mind? Why would she?" Betty asks. "Oh. Oh, no. She doesn't mind. They're half from her, anyway."

You nod, because that's no less weird than getting them from Betty alone. You sit at the dresser, check your face again. You look like a clown in the dressing room, but onstage they only see the highlights of your hair, the white of your face. No one really sees you.

"I don't suppose..." she starts off, and pulls a card from her handbag, holds it out to you. She stops halfway, then tries to shove it back in the little book it had been holding a place in. "No, don't worry, don't-" she trails off as you filch the paper from her fingers. She reaches out but she's too late. Her hand brushes yours and you forgot how her hand used to feel in yours. You don't know how you forgot something as important as that; time and memory are strange and intertwined; her hand feels familiar, but softer.

And in her soft, familiar hand was a very, very old photo of you; you didn't know she still had it. At least she chose one of the most tasteful of the batch. You remember the moment Chet took this one, how you'd finally managed to ignore him and focus on Betty, smiling because she was smiling.

You couldn't determine your expression in this photo, all those years ago. Now it's hitting you in the face.

"I don't know why I bought it with me," she mumbles. "Just... wanted you to sign something, I guess."

You riffle through a stack of glossies your agent left on your dresser, sign one absent-mindedly as you stare at the younger, more fearful version of yourself.

"I don't always make good decisions..." you start, with a self-deprecating laugh.

"I make worse," Betty says, with a shrug and a face too expressive to read a single emotion on it.

"I ran away from the only thing that ever meant anything to me." you counter. Betty's face brightens and tightens; she thinks she knows what you're saying but she won't let herself believe it. You want to elaborate but thoughts of Gladys at home in Betty's house, Kitty on her lap, maybe reading a book together, Kitty begging to stay up until Betty comes home - you've never been a homewrecker. But somehow you can't stop your hand from slipping its way back into hers, tugging her over to sit on the bench seat with you.

You don't remember Betty touching you overmuch; all you remember is her hand in your hair in the hospital bed; blood dried on her face, still in her overalls because she wouldn't leave you for more than a moment. You remember the way she felt soft pressed against you while you danced. You remember a lot of things that aren't helpful right now, her shoulder resting against yours, her hand still trapped in yours. You turn to face her but she's looking at you so... thoroughly that you have to turn away, meet her gaze in the mirror instead.

"Can I keep this one?" You ask tentatively. Betty nods and follows that up with a "Sure." There's a knock on the door and someone pokes their head in to tell you it's two minutes to curtain. Betty's hands drops from yours at the sound, she turns away from the door. You smile and nod and the intruder leaves, leaving the door open behind her.

"Well, you were great out there. Better get back to my seat," Betty says, brushing herself down carefully as she stands. You hold out the glossy for her; she slides it carefully into her book, rests a hand on your shoulder and tries to say something. She leaves; you watch her walk away. For all you know it's the last time you'll see her. But once she's gone, you're drawn back to the photo of somebody that you used to know. She's smiling, not at the camera, but at someone just off to the side, and her face is full of hope, and trust, and love.

* * *

Author's note: Sorry so late; full-on full-time new job. Getting cained but I'm killing it.


	6. A certain kind of sadness

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness

* * *

You half-expect to see Betty backstage after the show too, but she doesn't come. There's a crowd when you're leaving; there always is, but you don't see her there either as you're bustled through to the waiting car.

She's probably on her way home, where a tired Kitty will climb into her arms to be carried to bed, warm, tiny and heavy with sleep, still smelling faintly of milk. You can see Betty reading a story to the little girl; something involving farm animal noises that Betty could imitate, Kitty's eyes and smile wide. You can see Gladys, having just finished the dishes, leaning against the doorway, tea-towel still in her hands as she watches the person who was everything to you read to the person who is now everything to her. You can see Betty tucking her in, half-closing the door behind her and putting her arms around Gladys. You turn your face to the window; you don't want to imagine any more. It almost feels intrusive, even if it's only your own imaginings.

You're resigned, you tell yourself, to accept this... relationship. Gladys and Betty always did work well together, whether it was on the factory floor, or hunting down a spy or a saboteur, and you assume they work together just as well when making a life together with a child. It's none of your business, really. You turned Betty down, when you were young and stupid, full of ideals and religion. You gave up your second chance when you left this city and along with that the home Betty had offered; you can't expect a third chance. That she talks civilly to you should be enough.

It isn't. Your hands remember the way hers felt in them.

You didn't come here for her, you tell yourself a few times unconvincingly. You came because your manager asked you to. Not because some part of you hoped to be reunited in any way with Betty, or anyone from the factory. You only came here for the music. For your fans.

You're escorted into an elevator, then into your room, then your driver gracefully slips away. Your tea and supper is waiting for you but you go to your suitcase and pull out the bag of tea you bought earlier. You boil the water in a saucepan over the stove, thinking how commonplace this used to be to you. There is no teapot, no strainer, so you do your best but the leaf-water is lumpy and boiling. The delicate china is warm in your hands; a little too warm, but the sensation is relieving. It's so relieving to feel something after all your emptiness.

You can't shake the feeling that it wasn't supposed to end like this. One short and slightly awkward afternoon, one quick hug outside her house, one brief conversation where you couldn't convey anything other than how important she used to be in your life.

You open the window of the hotel room; you remember this hotel, Gladys stayed here when her fiance went to war. The smell of the lake permeates the room and you're struck with memories of Sandy Shores, of tentatively asking Betty to dance with you, her shy refusal, her body pressed against yours when you gently insisted, the way she shook with laughter at something you'd said. You don't remember what was so funny now, but you remember the way her laughter felt against you, the smile that graced her face when she met your eyes again. You sit on the window-ledge, look out over the flickering city, one foot on the sill. You should shower and get ready for bed but there's something to this wallowing, this processing, that's making you feel like you're missing something important, like you're anticipating something that might, just might, happen.

When you sip the tea, it's lumpy but not unpleasant. When you go to the bathroom and catch sight of yourself in the mirror there are leaves in your teeth. You turn on the hot tap and as you undress, you turn your back to the mirror and let your eyes peruse the bare expanse of skin you usually try to ignore. You know that it's Betty you have to thank that there aren't more scars. You know you would never have escaped if not for her. You wouldn't have minded going to prison for it; most of your life you were imprisoned in one way or another. it wouldn't have been the hardship Betty imagined. Now you're free, free to run your fingers along the sharp edge of a scar that will never fade, that still sits raised and pinkens in the steam of the shower.

There were so many better choices you could have made. You were right to run away from your father, you were wrong to run away from Betty and downright heartless to do it twice. The water stings as it hits your skin, and if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine the smell of cordite, the sounds of women gossiping among casual nudity. You can almost imagine Betty next to you, back turned deliberately to you but close enough that you felt safe.

You'd never felt safe before Betty. You'd never had anyone fight for you. You never knew anyone to fight like Betty. So you fought too; fought your way through hardships to where you are now, but you wish you'd stayed where you were. With Betty. Where it was safe.

And now it's too late, and you shouldn't be thinking about Betty like this. It's disloyal to Gladys, who was always braver and bolder than you.

She was brave enough to get what she wanted. It just happened to be what you wanted too.

* * *

Author's note: Much busy. Very exhaust.


	7. Have your friends collect your records

Have your friends collect your records

* * *

Gladys comes to your last show in Toronto. It's nowhere near as awkward as it was with Betty; you're comfortable around Gladys in a way that you're not comfortable with anyone any more but there's still a slight awkwardness on your part. You used to admire her so much; her jet-black, meticulously coiffed hair, her gloves, her stockings, her jewelry. Now you admire her for so much more; her strength of character, for enduring the isolation she so obviously faces as an unwed mother living with another woman. You would have expected that being cut off from her fortune would have changed her but she's still as graceful as ever, even with a child trailing behind her.

You invite them both into your dressing room. Kitty is shy of you now and half-hides behind her mother until you entice her out with a chocolate from a box that an admirer left for you. She takes it with delight and absent-mindedly slips her hand into yours as she sucks on the unexpected treat, looking wide-eyed around the room. You offer one to Gladys too, who also accepts. You cast an auditing eye over the gifts in the room, wondering which of them it'll be best to send home with Gladys rather than carrying all that extra baggage over state lines.

"You look weird," Gladys says suddenly, breaking the silence. You turn to the mirror and laugh, grab a damp cloth and wipe your face.

"Better?" you ask. She nods and Kitty hands her empty wrapper to you, and you in turn drop it into the wastepaper basket.

"I'm so proud of you," Gladys eventually says. "I never thought..."

"Neither did I," you tell her, because you never thought you could live a life without Betty and here you are, without her, talking to her partner.

"You left Betty quite heartbroken, you know," Gladys says conversationally, and this is why you didn't want to tour Ontario. You didn't want to be reminded of your own cruelty, of all the horrible things you had done. All that you couldn't leave behind but did anyway. You think Gladys is going to chastise you, or gloat, but she looks at your softly. "Me too," she says finally, and steps forward to embrace you. She's warm and still smells like that perfume she used to wear during the war; you can't recall the name of it right now, but it reminds you of Hazel, and James, of purple hands and locker-rooms and feeling safe.

When you exhale, you can finally feel the tension being lifted off you. She holds you longer than would probably be proper but the door is shut fast from prying eyes and you hadn't seen (before this week, at least) her for longer than her child had been alive. You wait until she pulls away, content to simply rest there a moment in peaceful understanding.

When she pulls away, her eyes are damp.

"I missed you, Kate," she says.

"Missed you too," you tell her quickly, because her tears appear to be contagious.

"Then why did you leave?" She asks, swinging your joined hands between you.

"I was becoming someone I wasn't sure I wanted to be. I was too reliant on other people, I had to go somewhere I could find out who I was." Gladys nods sagely.

"And did you like what you found?" You hesitate, because there's two answers to this question.

"I don't like that I hurt people to get where I am. I like what I do, mostly. It's very lonely." You look to where Gladys' hand still rests in yours, It's cold comfort, knowing she'l be going home to Betty pretty soon, slipping into bed beside a sleeping body that will half-wake at her weight on the bed, roll over to hold her, even in sleep.

"She has all your records," Gladys says, and you smile uncertainly, shaken from your train of thought. You almost wish the night was over so you can finally leave this city and all its memories behind you, along with the constant confrontation of Gladys and Bettys' relationship. But it'll be years before you see them again, and Kitty will never be the age she is right now, peering at herself in the mirror on tip-toes. The next time you see her, she'll be too big to pull into your lap when you sit at your dresser, too old to giggle at roses patting her nose. Gladys slips onto the seat beside you. "She read your letters too. She understands, I think."

"I never meant..." you starts, but Gladys nods.

"She knows you didn't set out to hurt her, but you did, Kate. I spent so much time doing damage control. People crying over Vera, over Ivan, over you."

"She cried over me?" You ask, a little awed. Betty's tough; you've only seen her cry a handful of times. Nazi's don't make Betty cry, but you do. "She must hate me," you say, jogging Kitty on your knee, taking a powder-puff from her hand and putting it back in the powder.

"She could never hate you," Gladys says dismissively. "You should know that by now." You pass Kitty to Gladys as you stand, who takes her with surprising ease, as though Betty and her passing the child between them is so common that it requires little processing. Of all the things to make you sad tonight, this is the worst. You can't even quantify why, so you turn away and start packing candy into bags so Gladys can take them home with her. When you hand her a bag, she tuts at you.

"I'm spoiled enough already," you tell her. "Besides, I'd only have to leave them at the hotel, day after tomorrow." You carefully slip some roses into the bag too. Kitty seems taken with the deep red blooms.

"Which hotel?" Gladys asks, and you tell her. "Good room service," is all she says.

You lead her to the door; it's quite late. You're sure it must be past Kitty's bedtime. Gladys hugs you with one arm, and one of Kitty's arms completes the embrace. She's used to this, being held between two adult bodies, and before this week you'd had so few hugs that even this one threatens to break down what's left of your defenses.

"I'll write," you yell down the hallway after them. Gladys half-turns, weighed down by child and bags.

"So will I," she says, and you know this time your letters will be answered, instead of wondering if your letters dissolved into the ether the moment you pushed them into the mailbox.

* * *

Author's note: Be kind, I wrote this in a meeting/on a train. Surfacing still on hiatus for reasons.


	8. Resignation to the end, always the end

Resignation to the end; always the end

* * *

It's after your last show in Toronto; you'll be moving on not tomorrow but the next day. Betty didn't come again, but Gladys and Kitty were just as welcome and you feel relieved and disappointed, both at once.

You're out of time. You're out of luck.

When Betty was in jail, you packed up all her things, cleaned her room out yourself. The other girls let you; they knew why she was in there. Evenings you used to spend with Ivan were now spent trying to resist going through her things, trying to catch her scent on her clothes, the marks of her fingers in her books. You used her perfume on your pillow when you couldn't sleep and the smell of her tricked your brain into thinking you were safe.

You were ashamed of yourself, hoping she wouldn't just look at you and know what you'd done, when you handed back her things.

This picture was in her things. You found yourself staring at it, wondering. You find yourself staring at it, still wondering when there's a knock on your hotel door.

* * *

"I didn't realise that last night was the last night, or I would have come too." Betty, even though you've just opened the door, is already leaning on the door frame, casually, like she doesn't have a wife and child to get home to. You step back and she brushes past you and you lean against the door a moment after you close it. Even that little contact has left you shaken. How can she have this effect on you? You remember lying next to her in a tiny bed and it didn't feel half as... indecent as her shoulder nudging yours.

"I would have sent another pass," you say eventually, as she watches your suddenly clumsy hands try to fill a saucepan. She takes it from you, puts it on the stove with such a sense of ease that you're the one that feels out of place in your own hotel room. You turn to fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

"Oh no, they let Kitty in without one," Betty says breezily. She leaves the saucepan and steps toward you. You're not sure what she wants so you step back hesitantly, grasping the firmness of the counter behind you.

Betty turns the last of her guest passes over in her hands, her bravado fading for a moment before she thrusts it at you.

"Obviously I can't use this, but I was wondering if I could trade it."

"Trade it? What for?" You ask, and she steps towards you, puts the pass down on the counter behind you. Her face is so close right now, her lips wet and inviting and you weren't really expecting it, but you weren't not expecting it either, so when her lips meet yours a stifled exclamation comes from you; not of alarm, but, to your great embarrassment, of pleasure. Your hands grasp hungrily for her, you can feel her warm beneath her dress, her shoulder blades, her spinal column, the softness of her hip. Her mouth is as soft as it always was; softer now you have the time to appreciate it. One of Betty's hands still rests on the counter beside you but now that she's more certain of herself she opens her mouth a little, brings a hand up to your face.

"Gladys," you manage to gasp out. Betty looks hurt, removes her hands where they were wrapped in the lapel of your shirt.

"What about her? Do you wish she was here instead of me?" Betty huffs. She pulls away and that's the last thing you want, but you know it's for the best so you somehow manage to unclasp your hands where they're firmly gripping her dress at the waist, the material scrunched in your wake.

"No, but aren't you... aren't you..." You can't bring yourself to say it. Lovers. Partners. Married. You still don't know what to do with your hands, so you pick up the pass, glance over it nonchalantly.

Betty looks taken aback then laughs heartily. You're a little offended.

"What's so funny?"

"You thought Gladys and I were... together?" She laughs still more and it's your turn to huff.

"You live together; you have a child together and given your tenancies I thought it was a safe assumption that..."

"I love Gladys; always will. But she's not..." Betty trails off and shrugs. "Not... like you, to me. You know what I mean, don't you? I mean, I'm sure there's some men that aren't... like Ivan for you... men that are just... friends," she says and you're wondering why she's talking about men when you've just had the most earth-shattering kiss of your life. It'd have been devastating if you weren't so absolutely sure you could get her to do it again.

"There's only you."

"You sure took your time," Betty says, exhaling, and she's still close enough that it brushes the skin of our throat; Betty watches it goose-pimple.

"I wasn't ready for you yet," you tell her and it's been about her all this time, the one person you could never shake from your mind.

"I know you're leaving soon and you have a huge career to get back to and Toronto is just a speed bump on that road to fame, but I couldn't let you go without letting you know that you still have a home." She looks at you with those ever-expressive eyes and you can see the uncertainty in her now, you can see how she had been steeling her for the impact of your rejection and you can't help but feel ashamed of yourself. You were just a kid, sure, with a head of religious dichotomy, but you still knew it was wrong the moment you let those vile words slip out of your mouth and hit her in the face as surely as if you'd hit her with your fist. It's comforting to think she's been waiting for you all this time and you don't want to make her wait any longer but you have another tour booked after this, and another after that, and a Christmas booking in California. Your life is all laid out for you and you love singing, you really do, but there's something here that means more to you than that.

She's said what she wanted to say; she turns back to the saucepan. "What were you planning on doing with this, anyway?" She asks, and you explain awkwardly how there's not kettle and you were going to try to make her tea and her laughter fills that place that's been empty for far too long.

You feel like singing for the first time in years. It's been a job so long you forgot what it was like to feel something and want to sing.

* * *

Author's note: I have no ceiling and many seizures. I wish it was the other way around.  
Not sure if this is done yet. Does it seem done? Can I go to bed now?


End file.
